


got the solitaire rug-burn

by contagionangel



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst and Humor, Crushes Are Also Suffering, First Kiss, Fluff, Knifeplay (sort of), M/M, Masturbation, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks, Pining, Puberty Is Suffering, Sex Toys, Slow Burn, Wet Dream, pre-game, this is actually a very soft fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2019-03-07 14:48:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13437081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/contagionangel/pseuds/contagionangel
Summary: The chronicles of Noctis being callously betrayed by his own dick, and maybe falling in love.





	got the solitaire rug-burn

The first time it happens, there's sweat in Noct's eyes, plastering his bangs to his forehead and making the world a blur. Later, he won't be able to remember why he was sparring with Ignis instead of Gladio, or much else that happened that day.

 

Age sixteen: birth of the most awkward kink possible to carry secretly for _years_.

 

When he next blinks the sweat out of his eyes, he's pinned to the mat. Ignis is still wearing his gloves with the tank top, which should be ridiculous, but the texture and the unyielding grip of the hold--

 

He tries to buck and finds that he _can't move_. There’s some unreadable expression behind Ignis' glasses, seeming to stare right through him, and Noct's mouth goes dry.

 

The late afternoon sun pours in around them, painting the tips of his eyelashes gold as they drift downward a bit, making the colors stand out in his eyes.

 

"I see you've really been putting that extra effort in, your highness." says Ignis, unhurried, maybe even a little bored. It's probably not the first time Noct has seen him in something without sleeves, but he's got a surprising amount of muscle, unyielding without straining to hold Noct in place.

 

Noct's eyes nearly cross. "Uh-huh." he says vaguely in response. Heat is springing up the shell of his ear; if he hadn't already been flushed from exertion, he'd have nothing to camouflage that he is, in fact, starting to blush. Was there something he was supposed to be doing?

 

After another long moment, the hold on him slackens. The face over his changes angle. "Noctis," Ignis starts, getting that little divot between his brows, "are you alright?"

 

It's softer, and it breaks the moment like a bucket of cold water.

 

He hopes it's a fluke of ever-capricious hormones, tries to shake it off, and finds himself with an unexpectedly renewed enthusiasm for practicing with Gladio, who at least has never _specifically_ given Noct a boner by making fun of him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It's not a fluke.

 

Noct discovers this at age seventeen, mere months later, the incident and all related reactions mostly having passed by the next time Ignis turned up to make him do homework and eat a vegetable.

 

This time, to make matters worse, Gladio's in the room. Noct's been getting better; his spars with Ignis, which are few, are usually weapons spars, and he wins enough to count.

 

He's not in a hurry to die, so it's strange that the first thought he has over the dagger blanks is a flash of wishing they were cold steel once they're at his throat, Ignis straddling him and bearing his weight down.

 

Ignis is, thankfully, not positioned to feel the fact that Little Noct has taken interest in what's going on. "I yield!" Noct gasps, and he'll have no explanation for Gladio's heckling about why he didn't try to warp out when Ignis paused instead of calling the hold.

 

He feels floaty and warm, which is not what he's supposed to feel when someone has a kill lined up on him, although there was a tingle of alarm at the base of Noct's spine that's since turned electric.

 

Gladio seems to pick up on the fact that he’s not just trying to slack off, but still insists on acting like he is anyway. Noctis gets tossed a greatsword instead, once he’s caught his breath; it takes an extra moment, because he’s distracted by the sight in his peripheral vision of Ignis gulping water down.

 

That night, he's too tired to jerk off before bed, and he dreams that his armed are pinned behind his back by the tangle of his school shirts and uniform blazer, and that Ignis is hovering over him with a knife.

 

Things are-- it reminds him vaguely of something Prompto had said about lenses and focus; things are blurry and dim except for pinpoints of lucid detail, too-close and too-bright.

 

The tip of the knife pricks, but not hard enough to draw blood, and it traces slowly over Noct's skin, scratching delicate patterns on his chest and leaving a buzzing sensation in its wake. Noct hisses, catches his lip between his teeth, as it dances around delicate and ticklish spots-- up under his arms, looping lazy over his ribs as he takes shaky breaths, and then popping the button off the front of his trousers, which drag his boxers to his ankles.

 

In the dream, he watches the button roll away and thinks, a bit inanely, that it's fair enough, since Ignis keeps mending all his clothes anyway, and then he's wearing no pants at all.

 

The knife goes down around his hipbones, his thighs, down his calves and the arches of his feet and then back up again, in the strange symmetrical pattern weaving over him like a spell. It keeps pulling him toward something he can’t explain, until it's wrapping up and over the shaft of his dick.

 

"You haven't even looked at that council report, have you?" asks Ignis, business as normal, as he ends it tapping the flat of the knife on Noct’s glans.

 

Noct wakes up blindingly hard, drenched in cold sweat, and gripping his sheets as he stares wild-eyed into the dark. "What the _fuck_ ," he says with feeling.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He still manages, somehow, to look his advisor in the eye.

 

Somehow.

 

Even when he gets later dreams, less distinct, but all with the sense that they’re a shape that Ignis _could_ be; a phantom partner who isn’t not him, taunting, teasing, leaving Noct gasping.

 

Noctis had mulled the idea over in his head before that he wasn’t completely straight, and he’s reluctantly trawled some porn before abandoning most of it out of boredom, but this is something else altogether.

 

He thought his adolescent hormones had peaked somewhere around the tissue avalanche incident of age fifteen. For a while he’d thought they’d _never_ return, since the point where the sudden abatement of tissue use and crunchy socks had alerted Ignis to how Noctis’ depression was spiralling out in a bad way-- from sheer embarrassment, if nothing else.

 

Things are recovering. He has whole new reasons to tune out during lectures and report summaries. In return, he finds himself becoming more snappish and bristling more than ever, in some knee-jerk embarrassed instinct to avoid going all floaty and lax and compliant.

 

When his teacher catches him sleeping in class, yet again, Ignis is the one who hears about it. He has Noctis as a captive audience for the whole drive home, but doesn’t say anything, just occasionally flicking his gaze up from under his lashes to openly study Noct via the rear-view mirror, which seems uncharacteristically unsafe-- but the driving is as smooth and keen as ever.

 

Noct wonders what he’s looking at. The greasy patches? How Noct’s hair’s gotten even more unruly, and he keeps sleeping with product in and skipping showers? The bags under Noct’s eyes? Here lies His Highness Of Puberty, killed by dick betrayal. He feels a little repulsive.

 

That night is yet another council meeting that Ignis is attending in his stead.

 

Once they pull up to Noct’s apartment building and Noct steps out, Ignis finally rolls the window down and speaks. “I’ve left something for you in the fridge.” he says. “Try to go to bed early.”

 

“I sleep plenty.” replies Noctis, squinting at him. “I-- really? That’s what you’re going to say to this? Go to bed early?”

 

Something in him wants to bristle and snap, but he feels weirdly disarmed.

 

Ignis just shrugs. “I think you’ll find the timing of the sleep matters.”

 

It’s mild. Too mild.

 

“You should take your own advice!” he thinks to call after the car, but it’s too late, and anyway, it’s still not right.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He knows he can’t get away with even considering smoking for more than a moment; instead, the weak vice he picks up is taking the elevator to the roof at night. It’s the closest he can get to fresh air and stars in the city-- the city that’s his home, the city that’s going to depend on him, the beautiful prison he _loves_ that’s going to kill his father and then kill him.

 

A lot of nights, he actually does go to bed fairly early. It takes Prompto having a night off and Noct getting away with _giving_ Ignis a night off for him to have anything to stay up all night for, like video games or last-minute cramming for exams; it’s not like anything short of an all-out phone call will drag Noct out of bed if he’s in his sleeping state of dead to the world, and if he can’t sleep in the city named for it and Prompto’s got a late shift, he doesn’t have to be alone with his thoughts.

 

It ends up with him missing from school for three days when, in the dream, Ignis is wearing a sexy nurse outfit, sitting with needles at the ready. “No, nope, nope,” he says out loud, waking deeply unsettled, and thankfully that one _is_ a fluke; he follows it up with a cold shower and goes straight to the roof after, and nearly gets pneumonia for his trouble.

 

No needles.

 

It takes a couple of days for his hormones to rally enough after that for him to get properly hard again, as just one more of those awful teenage things that he can’t talk to anyone about and doesn’t really want to.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The rift builds. He explodes over the counter before dinner one night.

 

“Stop hovering over me!” he says, louder and rougher than he even meant to, when Ignis makes the very mild suggestion that Noct is starting to look underfed again, junk food aside, and has been falling behind on council issues besides, would some extra tutoring time make a difference? “I didn’t ask you to hold my hand!”

 

In fact, something clenches in his chest at the show of concern. His brain chooses that of all times to intrusively punctuate with a mental image of Ignis holding his hand. It’s weird, it doesn’t help, and it gives Ignis time to respond.

 

“Prince Noctis,” he says, “I’m just worried about your future. That’s all.”

 

That’s reasonable, says some part of Noct’s brain that tries, it really does.

 

Whatever’s flaring out of some weird angry fear he doesn’t have a name for isn’t planning on listening.

 

“ _It’s not your job to care_ !” shouts Noct’s mouth. His voice cracks. The part of his brain that tries seems to be muffled behind some glass barrier, screaming as it pounds on the glass; the hormonal mood that wants to break something, cry, and eat an entire pizza in bed has taken the driver’s seat, gods help him. “I’m sure you’ve got _better things to do_ than _wasting your time here_!”

 

He regrets it as soon as he says it, because he can’t unsay it, and because he wants Ignis to say it’s untrue.

 

Ignis just stares at him a long moment, like he can’t begin to believe how Noct is acting.

 

“ _Be that as it might,_ ” says Ignis, and Noctis feels his soul shrivel, “I will at least do the minimum necessary to keep you from dying in a pile of garbage and allowing your subjects to do so as well.”

 

He spends large portions of nearly every day with Ignis. Ignis drives him back and forth from school, from the council; Ignis gets his groceries or takes him for them; Ignis lives more of Noct’s life _for_ him than Noct himself lives, and probably spends as much time every morning preparing for the things Noct lets go slack as Noct spends taking afternoon naps. Fighting with Ignis is _the_ worst idea. Fighting with Ignis over nothing is--

 

Noct turns his head.

 

Ignis steps forward. “Look at me.” he says.

 

Noctis can feel his mouth twist into a grimace.

 

Ignis’ hand raises, and Noct’s breath catches in his throat. Is a gloved hand going to force his head to turn? Is Ignis about to throttle him or give him a good smack? Instead, is it going to settle carefully on his head?

 

He doesn’t get an answer. Ignis just takes his jacket and leaves. The door closes softly behind him. Dinner sits half-cooked and making noises on the stove, and a thousand questions fight with shame in his gut as he becomes aware that he’s backing down from half-hard.

 

There’s one question probably answered, at least: whether or not he’s been acting mature enough that, if Ignis thought he was even considering having sex with _anyone_ , he’d be free of an intervention. The Lucis Caelums are clearly doomed to end with him, regardless of who he’s attracted to; he’s going to die a virgin because he won’t get ahold of his attitude problem. Great.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It’s not like he can ask his advisor about it, so he builds his tolerance up over a series of days trying to figure out the right Moogle keywords to figure out what’s up with his brain and his dick. All dramatics aside, it’s probably-- it’s probably approximately normal. Lots of weird dick things are actually approximately normal, as long as everyone involved is into it.

 

The strain with Ignis gives him a few days of space. His dreams go foggy and frenetic, although sometimes he remembers a flash of green eyes or gloves or the light off of glasses and is distinctly uncomfortable about it.

 

He feels momentary despair over the logistics problems that’d be involved if he wanted to get, like, educational materials about kinky 101 that he could trust, maybe some supplies so that at least if he dies a virgin he won’t have to die a bored and horny virgin.

 

He ends up texting Prompto when the internet won’t give him a straight answer about how old you have to be in Insomnia to enter and buy things in dirty shops, at least in practice. Never mind paparazzi; never mind expense reports for credit cards if he tried to order something to have delivered to his door, probably; never mind he’s stressed enough, some days, wondering if his texts to Prompto are getting read for security, if someone’s watching his search history in real time, what they must think of his overwhelm about where to start.

 

Ignis is probably very much _not_ into the idea of tying Noct up and doing things that Noct is too inexperienced to imagine very well.

 

Especially not now.

 

Ignis is handsome and pretty and responsible, time has been super unfair to him, at best he probably sees Noct like a bratty little brother and _being a teenager is hell_.

 

If he wanted to get anything, and if he wanted to do more than basic research that was meaningful-- most of the porn he encountered made him cringe, which was probably for the best-- he’d have to get it through Ignis. His advisor. His advisor, Ignis.

 

He tries to picture himself doing something workably smooth, like asking for hands-on advising for some dick problems, and nearly chokes.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He pushes a little harder to keep up with council reports, with homework. His schedule involves a balanced amount of shifts keeping an eye on the metal baskets in deep-fat fryers, ringing up soft drinks, figuring out stir-fry and pasta at home that has a vegetable or two in it and isn’t charred to the pan.

 

(It’s a little crunchy, a little bland, but it’s not bad. More importantly, it’s not ruined. It’s edible.)

 

Noct doesn’t think he’s gay-- well, he’s kind of gay. He thinks he’s maybe half gay, because some girls are really cute, but also all tired and constantly dying. Is he bisexual? Is anyone at all setting off his hormones a fluke? Does he both absolutely respect and appreciate that no matter how mature some negaverse version of him might get, there’s no way he could segue into getting someone in his life to violate the honor of their position for the sake of him _getting some_ , and feel so, so frustrated?

 

All of the above.

 

He’s the him who lives in this universe, so he forgets to start the washer sometimes after loading it. It turns out he’s kind of bad at sorting clothes, and then that it doesn’t actually matter, but the flub that happens most consistently is him forgetting to move them to the dryer.

 

If he used a laundromat like most people who live in apartments, that’d go pretty badly for him, but he cuts himself some slack for trying.

 

Ignis brings food that he made somewhere else, more often, for a few weeks, stays sparsely and says a few civil words from a safe distance. Outwardly, they navigate each other like bored strangers at a diplomatic meeting with little to discuss. They see each other less often, and he takes the bus more, even if his security isn’t all too happy about it.

 

The scenery of his apartment isn’t always either a wreck or sparkling anymore; it’s a blurrier level of lived-in as he leaves a trail of dishes half-done, hamper loads half-gathered, and without words Ignis meets him halfway and steps back his own labor.

 

At least, that’s what Noct hopes is happening. His push for more independence might feel like an extension of their fight more than an apology. He might not be completely sure which one it is himself.

 

Prompto’s been busier with work to cover bills, too, pulling more responsibilities away from his parents, and Noct realizes that he’s lonely, and that the relative isolation probably isn’t helping with things being weird and kind of sideways. He writes to Luna a little more often, goes out of his way to try to call his dad, and even startles a classmate at one point with an attempt at conversation; it helps in some ways and makes it worse in others.

 

Exactly two months after the day they have the fight, he comes home to Ignis reading at the table, his apartment showcase-clean again and suffused with the warm smell of baking. Another try at the Tenebraean pastries sits on the table.

 

He wants to tell Ignis that they’re perfect. No two batches have been the same, and early on some batches had more obvious flaws: dry and overbaked, or plated too soon, or too sweet, or not sweet enough. But every batch has been perfect.

 

Instead, he hmms. “Not quite,” he says, “but it’s good. They’re good warm.”

 

“How does delivery sound for tonight?” asks Ignis.

 

He’s not there the night after, but startles Noct with delivery again by ordering for them, and startles Prompto too by arranging a ride for him to Noct’s place for a study session that lasts two hours and leads into a five-hour gaming one.

 

The gravity’s never actually escaped him of how screwed he’d be without Ignis to keep his life running, but he’s starting to catch himself pining for Ignis when he’s gone. He’s trying not to freak out, but the shape Ignis takes in his life is like a limb he didn’t know he was missing _every time_ , and now it’s compounded by a fierce sensation setting hooks behind his ribs so that he can hardly breathe.

 

He doesn’t even know what he wants. Stern Ignis, dry, mocking? The weird flashes of warm intimacy, closeness? That tender regard he doesn’t know what to do with? Does he want control, respect, compliance? To be _owned_? An aching void that at least isn’t giving him a goddamn heart attack all the time?

 

(All of the above.)

 

Little things start to get to him to the point that the days begin fading into a blur. The way Ignis’ hair falls in his face-- and then the way it doesn’t when he starts gelling it up again, and how distracting it is when the soft bits that escape styling fall wispy at the ends, the way they move. The way the muscles in his forearms ripple when his sleeves are rolled up as he chops things for cooking, and the way he’s so absently adept, tuning in on the things he does with the same perfectionistic focus that he carries constantly.

 

It feels like a dam’s broken in Noct. At one point, he catches himself staring at Ignis’ eyes through the glasses while Ignis is looking elsewhere. Something has to change or stop before things get way too weird.

 

He picks up more shifts flipping burgers and pretending nobody recognizes him, and lets more reports pile up while he broods. It’s a good thing the fryers have timers built in, or undoubtedly he’d have been fired a long time ago; as it is, nobody with any sense is letting him near the register to deal with customers anytime soon.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Finally, age eighteen, things come to a head the week he skips classes and uses the trains to take a series of night shifts. He wakes up sometime in the afternoon to the sun in his eyes and his phone ringing. Prompto grins awkwardly at him from the screen.

 

“Hey,” he says, half-awake.

 

“ _Oh my god Noctis you did_ not _tell me Ignis was so scary_ ,” says Prompto, voice cracking, and then, “ _seriously, though, dude, are you okay?_ ”

 

Noct shoots up so quick that he nearly falls off the couch.

 

“Ignis what?” says Noct. He cradles the phone between his head and his shoulder. “I did _so_ tell you he’s scary.”

 

“ _You didn’t tell me_ how _scary he is._ ” Prompto corrects. “ _He called me to inform me that if I,_ ” he takes on an approximation of Ignis’ accent, “ _am to blame for the truancy of His Highness in not only school so near to graduation, but also matters of the Crown and personal safety, it might be a good season to enlist in the Glaives. And request a distant posting._ ”

 

Noct smacks his head against the back of the couch. “Oh my god.” he says.

 

His hands raise to cover his face. “Oh my god.” he mutters into them. “Oh my god.”

 

 _“Are you-- are you okay? I-- you know you can tell me anything, right?”_ says Prompto.

 

After a long pause, Noct gives a ragged sigh. “Even if it’s really gay?” he asks flatly. He’s so tired.

 

 _“Even if it’s really gay.”_ Prompto repeats. _“Wait, it’s really gay?”_

 

“Or bi, I guess…” Noct mutters. He switches his phone to the other ear so that he doesn’t get a crick in his neck and draws his knees up to his chest. “I think I’m getting some weird masochism thing for Ignis,” he says in a rush all at once.

 

 _“I’m probably gonna regret asking,”_ says Prompto, _“but define ‘weird masochism thing’.”_

 

Noct groans piteously. “It’s like he put a curse on my dick.” he mourns. “I can’t train with him anymore. I can’t handle touching him. I can barely handle looking at him. He’s-- Prompto, did he always look this good?”

 

 _“Yes, but we’re getting away from the point.”_ Prompto reminds him. _“Weird masochism thing. Go.”_

 

“I can’t decide if it’s worse when he’s mad, or worse when he’s nice.” says Noct. “When he’s condescending it, uh, it really works for me. Or it’s started to. And when he manhandles me. Just him.”

 

 _“Oh boy.”_ says Prompto. _“Why’s it worse when he’s nice?”_

 

He feels himself get quiet.

 

“So around when the dick problem started,” says Noct, “every time he smiles, I feel really good. And when he’s careful with me and acts like it’s more than just a chore or a job to deal with me, there’s just-- this feeling in my chest that’s so big it hurts, except when it’s there, it feels like if it stops, I’ll die.”

 

His jaw clicks closed.

 

“It’s stupid.” he adds, quieter, rougher.

 

 _“Oh my god,”_ says Prompto, _“you’re in love or something and your dick is cursed with a weird masochism thing!”_

 

“Prompto,” Noct hisses, bordering on hysterical as he curls onto his side on the couch so that he has something to hide his burning face in, “what do I do? _What do I do_?”

 

 _“When’s the next time you see him?”_ asks Prompto.

 

“He’s probably going to come around tonight, like he does every night.” Noct replies. “And, Prom, I fucked up. He’s pissed. I doubt my boss would have scheduled me so many weeknights in a row if he’d noticed, either, I was just in a hurry to get out of my own head. It’s mostly busywork at school right now, so…”

 

 _“And I know how you sleep after you’ve been up all night.”_ adds Prompto, thoughtfully. _“Can’t deal with feelings if you’re sleeping through them, right?”_

 

“I’ve been...waking up when he comes around. If I can. I might be having conversations with him in my sleep without remembering again.” Noctis winces. “It’s been a few years, but when I try to talk to him on no sleep, it’s been...bad.”

 

He can hear Prompto wince, too, through the call. His sleep-deprived moods are astoundingly crabby.

 

 _“You could always try talking to him about it..?”_ Prompto offers.

 

Noctis stops and thinks about it.

 

“I could always just die?” he replies.

 

 _“I should probably argue with that, but god, I relate.”_ says Prompto very sincerely. _“You might have a chance with him, though! You look good. And Ignis might be gay.”_

 

“Ignis has known me since I was born.” Noct groans. “He’s only two years older, but that’s enough that--”

 

 _“Wait, wait,”_ says Prompto, _“he’s only two years older than you? Really? He’s twenty?”_

 

Noct can’t tell what his face is trying to do, but it involves a lot of puzzled contorting.

 

“How old did you _think_ Ignis was?” he sputters.

 

 _“No, like, I can see it now that I know,”_ Prompto protests. _“Okay, that makes things less weird.”_

 

“I-- what?” asks Noct, helpless. “It does?”

 

 _“Well, yeah!”_ replies Prompto. _“For one, it means it’s not, like, super creepy if he’s into you. For two, even if he looks all put-together from a distance, it probably hasn’t been that long since he was dealing with weird dick things himself, y’know?”_

 

“Prom,” he bites out, grave and slow, feeling like his friend doesn’t understand the weight of how doomed he is, “Ignis has _never_ dealt with _weird dick things_.”

 

“I’m glad for the vote of confidence, your highness.” says Ignis somewhere over Noct’s head.

 

His heart stops. His world ends. The heat-death of the universe comes, he breaks out into a cold sweat, and distantly, through ringing ears, he thinks he can faintly hear Prompto saying _“Holy shit!”_ through the phone, which seems to have teleported to somewhere on the couch.

 

When he turns his head, he sees very keenly from how Ignis leans over him that Ignis’ dress shirt has the top few buttons undone. Noct gulps as his eyes skid over the long lines of Ignis’ neck down past his collarbones, the way his skull pendant hangs, the slight gape of his undershirt. It’s not a completely new sight, but Noct can see his pecs _Noct can see his pecs holy shit--_

 

Finally, he manages to wrench his gaze up to look Ignis in the eye. They stare each other down for a very long, very uncomfortable moment where Noct’s brain just won’t cooperate. He doesn’t blush hard or often, but his face is burning so badly that he thinks it might get stuck that way. This is it. He’s ready to die any second now.

 

He can hear sounds coming from his phone as if he were underwater, but he just can’t make himself move.

 

“Noctis is going to have to call you back.” says Ignis, evenly, and his arms end up bracketing Noct for a moment when he leans down to hang up the call.

 

Then he’s being pulled up to a sitting position, a hand between his shoulderblades, Ignis next to him on the couch. “Breathe.” says Ignis. “Breathe with me.”

 

He follows on autopilot, foggy, as Ignis counts slow breaths: four in. Hold four. Four out. Gradually the world slows and clears, and square breathing doesn’t usually do much for him, but now his memory is playing Ignis’ voice over itself, higher, more tense, and how could he have forgotten?

 

The rest of his brain kicks back online. He buries his face in his hands.

 

“I am,” he says, muffled, “so sorry.”

 

“What are you sorry _for_?” asks Ignis. It’s quiet and steady.

 

“Everything?” says Noct. “For being so weird and awful. For skipping a week of school without thinking about it. For yelling at you when you do _everything_.”

 

“You haven’t ‘yelled’ at me in months.” replies Ignis, sounding a little taken aback. “Noct, I-- I know I’m not likely your first choice in confidants. You don’t have to talk to me about it. But I think you need to talk with someone, and if I’ve interrupted just that, then I owe _you_ an apology.”

 

“No,” Noct says miserably into his hands, “I should talk to you. You deserve to know. After, if it makes things easier, you can pretend I never said anything.”

 

“Somehow,” says Ignis, shuffling a little closer on the couch, “I doubt it’s all that bad. We’ll talk through it together. Okay?”

 

Oh boy, thinks Noct. And then thinks. And thinks. His mouth opens and closes. He’s not good at words and talking things out in the best circumstances.

 

He takes a deep breath.

 

“There’s no good way to put this.” says Noct. “So I like you, uh, a lot. But the way I figured it out was kind of, weird? And it freaked me out a lot. It was-- a lot at once. I didn’t handle it well at all. I’m still figuring myself out.”

 

His jaw clicks shut. It’s more than he expected to be able to say, and at the same time, he’s barely said anything.

 

Ignis’ hand stays on his back, steady pressure; Ignis’ knee bumps his. At least he’s not getting a flinch away.

 

“How long have you been dealing with this...crush?” asks Ignis carefully.

 

An uncomfortable laugh pulls from Noct’s throat. A crush. Right. He could call it that.

 

“Remember when I was sixteen, and you were convinced you’d given me a concussion while we were sparring?” says Noct. “Except I think I might have had the...crush on you for even longer. That’s just when I couldn’t...avoid it anymore.”

 

Ignis is, Noct realizes, faintly pink. His gaze flicks away for a moment.

 

“I can see why the timing would have made things more apparent to you then, yes.” he says. “Heavens. I must have been insufferable. Do I need to..?”

 

“It’s fine, it’s, good,” says Noct. “I guess some part of me was worried that I’ve-- I haven’t been creeping on you, have I? Do you need space? I can--”

 

The next thing he knows, there’s arms around him. “Noct, no,” says Ignis fiercely into his shoulder. When Ignis pulls away, it’s to look him in the eye, still anchoring him down. “I’m simply surprised. I wouldn’t have guessed that-- well.” He clears his throat, and Noct tries to smother down the sudden little spark of hope over how _Ignis is still blushing._

 

“I promise not to become more distant, nor more touch-averse, based on what you might see fit to tell me.” Ignis adds. He sounds like he’s trying to be careful choosing his words. “Beyond the duties of my position, I hope you know that I consider you with more than a little care and regard.”

 

Noct feels weak all over. “Yeah,” he says, hoarse, and oh no, he’s getting emotional, dammit, “it’s-- some of it’s kind of weird? And I was really overwhelmed. I didn’t know where to start, and I didn’t feel like--”

 

He can’t say it.

 

“You didn’t feel like you could ask me about it,” guesses Ignis, “because it was about me?”

 

Noct nods.

 

Ignis disentangles from him, but stays sitting close at his side. “And you’ve been carrying this-- the feelings, the questions-- all alone?”

 

“Well, I did manage to talk to Prompto about it tonight.” says Noct. “I was looking for advice, I guess.”

 

“What did he say?” asks Ignis.

 

It takes Noct a moment of editing in his head to find a version worth sharing. “Basically that...you can probably relate to dealing with things like feelings and hormones, and to give you a little more credit.”

 

“I appreciate that.” says Ignis. “...Especially considering that I was less than gregarious when we spoke.”

 

Noct laughs a little helplessly. “I think he expected to be exiled to the front lines to fight the Empire personally.”

 

Ignis pauses. “Oh dear.”

 

“So you don’t, like, get sent my search history or anything? I was hoping you weren’t, but--” starts Noct.

 

“No, no! Definitely not!” replies Ignis, verbally scrambling. “That would be the grossest violation of privacy-- Noct, I reassure you, great measures have been taken to ensure _nobody_ but you knows your internet history. It’s a major security concern.”

 

“That’s a relief.” says Noct, shrugging. It’s not the biggest thing on his mind right now, really. “I guess that makes sense. I wouldn’t want someone at my ISP to need some extra cash, then bam, can’t go to the convenience store for soda without seeing five tabloids that say ‘Crown Prince Is Questioning Masochist?’, with a screencap of, uh, ‘how old do you have to be to buy a vibrator’ heading.”

 

Ignis’ mouth presses into a tight line for a moment, twitching at the corners, and he gives a strange cough. “Quite,” he says.

 

“But I guess I’m getting to the age where I’d have to talk to you about it anyway.” Noct continues, going flatter and feeling a little more desperate with every word. Lo, he keeps talking. “If I wanted supplies, or needed someone to know where I was for a, hookup,”

 

“Of course,” says Ignis, a considerable amount of the whites of his eyes showing.

 

“For safety,” says Noct.

 

It’s Ignis’ turn to bury his face in his hands. Noct pulls away a little.

 

“This is too much.” says Noct.

 

“I see we have a lot to talk about.” says Ignis at the same time. “No, no, you’re right, you’re an adult, now, and should have the freedom and preparation to seek sexual partners safely and discreetly if you so desire. I’ll need time to prepare educational materials and, if needed,” the look that crosses his face is indescribable, “requisition...a vibrator, and any other--”

 

“Oh my god.” says Noct.

 

“Noct,” says Ignis, “to whatever extent you require my help and advice, I will do my best to see that you’re neither endangered nor deprived of the healthy, normal human experiences you desire.”

 

“Oh.” says Noct.

 

Ignis’ eyelashes flick downward. “And once you’re on somewhat more equal bearings educationally, you having reached a wider adult social circle, and you’re more ready to consider pursuing someone, then…” He swallows. Noct finds the bob of his adam’s apple briefly hypnotizing. “If you’re still interested, we might have something additional to discuss.”

 

“Really? I--” His heart stops yet another time. “Do you mean that?”

 

Ignis’ cheeks go outright _red_. “I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it.” he says evenly.

 

“I, uh-- I’d kind of figured _you’d_ never--” sputters Noct.

 

“Well, _I_ was starting to wonder if you were simply asexual or aromantic. Or both.” replies Ignis. “Goodness knows I’m not the most traditionally attractive option available to you, and it’s not like you’re short on catching potential suitors’ eyes.”

 

“You’re kidding, right?” says Noct. “I’m kind of-- antisocial and grumpy. My grades suck. My cooking sucks. I’m scared of driving in traffic. I’ll nap anywhere. I can’t keep up with my schedule and you’re always looking after me. And I’ve spent a couple of years in the closet because-- some kinky dreams scared me.”

 

Then, Ignis does jerk away. Noct’s stomach gives an unpleasant turn at the loss of warm presence at his side. “Scared you?” he asks, careful and low.

 

“And you’re you,” he continues, ignoring it, starting to get heated. “You always look so-- put-together-- but even when you don’t. Especially when you don’t. You just. Everything you cook tastes great. You’re smart, sometimes it seems like you can do anything, and I don’t understand where you find the time and energy to put up with me. I don’t know why people aren’t all over you. For all I know, you do all this and-- go home to a secret harem.”

 

“Noct,” says Ignis, patiently, “you’ve seen my apartment. You’ve left five video games at my apartment. I don’t think I could fit a-- harem--” he gives a smaller version of the strange cough, “--in there. You’ve got to be reasonable.”

 

“You know more about harem logistics than me,” says Noct.

 

“I should hope not,” says Ignis. “Well,” he amends, “the logistics part, yes,”

 

“So you don’t have a...boyfriend?” asks Noct, glancing over, trying not to fidget with his hands.

 

“Like I said,” says Ignis, “we’ll be able to talk about that later.”

 

The corners of Noct’s mouth twitch up. “So what? I just write out a grocery list? Like I did with snacks when we were kids?”

 

His brain amends at the last minute that reminding Ignis of when they were kids is probably not the best move, but Ignis just pulls his pocket notebook and pen out-- of course it’d be on him, of course.

 

He makes a list. It’s thorough. He might let himself get a little ridiculous with it.

 

Ignis leaves an enormous gift basket on his dinner table, blinds drawn and dinner waiting. There’s informative books made together in the form of binders and folders in the basket; the contents are blatantly explicit, and it looks too big to have brought up to his apartment all at once.

 

“Holy shit,” says Noct, and he rushes to get good pictures of it with his phone to text to Prompto, entirely to terrorize him.

 

Dinner ends up getting cold, but mostly while he hunts for outlets available to charge the weird abstract-statue-looking high-end vibrators from the pyramid of sex toys.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Around two in the morning, Noct wakes up because the air is uncomfortably chill against his-- wow.

 

His pajama shirt’s rucked up, and there’s-- jizz-- splattered up his stomach and, oh, wow, that’s some on his face. He feels weirdly slippery and leaky beyond what he’s felt from his experiments with his own fingers, and fumbles with hands that are still in padded cuffs for the not-quite-dead vibrator that’s slipped away into the sheets.

 

Wow.

 

 _How is it?_ texts Ignis the next evening, having also thoughtfully left food waiting in the fridge for Noct to reheat, presumably to ensure Noct’s privacy with the-- it’s too elaborate to think of as a starter pack, but it’s also hard to think of the basket as anything else, and there’d even been a _gift card_ to an apparently-discreet website in it.

 

 _Please do not respond with anything explicit_ Ignis adds by the time Noct is out of the shower.

 

Noct thinks about it.

 

 _Educational_ he replies. For one thing, he’s learning that the biggest benefit of toys is that he’s lazy, and that the biggest downside of it all is that he’s lazy, and discovering an embarrassing need for nap breaks in-between that’s really slowing him down. Cleanup is a thing, too. It can all get kind of messy.

 

Noct pauses.

 

 _how secure is my phone gallery?_ he asks. _almost want a second phone now for posterity._ he thinks to add. It might be worth imperiously demanding. He’s documented some of it, just in case. For the future. It’s important that he keep those pictures safe.

 

There’s more than just vibrators and cuffs in the basket, of course. What’s in the folders is there more to be informative but titillating, but it helps fill in some gaps, too.

 

 

* * *

 

 

So they don’t change his routines, like, drastically, but proper lube versus lotion is pretty nice, and he figures out that he’s definitely a fan of sex toys. Even if they’re a lot of effort, and he wonders what new angles might be more easily accessible to a partner-- well.

 

He only ends up having one awkward incident over leaving a vibrator charging in the living room. It’s even one of the more abstract-shaped ones.

 

The first major hiccup he encounters is the whole partner question, and not just because of angles he has trouble reaching himself. But apparently it’s more complicated than whether or not Ignis is crazy enough to date him, let alone do anything else, because they’ve each got some level of power or advantage over the other that could make it sketchy all too easy, and no real easy out if things ended badly.

 

In the end, he has a horribly awkward conversation with his dad that thankfully involves nothing about weird dick things, and a few people are clued in as a kind of safety net for both of their sakes. It’s all done under the premise of just in case, and it feels almost like some courting ritual, like they’re asking his dad’s permission to hold hands. It’s a weird contrast to his solo adventures.

 

He makes the mistake of texting Prompto under the table, _hey what if u chaperoning my and ignis’s dates_ , no punctuation or hope of escape from His Father Being Very Accepting Of His Coming Out.

 

 _like join????_ says Prompto, and then _hope u dont mean masochism way LMAO!!_

 

 _never mind BETRAYED hate u also u would be honored to date either of us_ , he replies, followed by a considerable amount of emoji.

 

He doesn’t know if he’s going to ever have a date with Ignis in the masochism way, but after, when Ignis drives him away from the constant madness that is the Citadel and they end up at a cafe for a light and early dinner, he feels _kind_ of like he’s having a date in the date way. The place feels classy. He can picture Ignis taking someone on a date there; he’d just have had trouble imagining it being _him_.

 

The coffee he gets sent to wait at the tiny table with looks like it should be bitter and dry-tasting, but it’s mild and even a little sweet, and it’s gone before he knows it, warming him up. They have soup and sandwiches quietly, companionably.

 

He’s hyperaware of the murmur of other patrons in the periphery, of the soft music piping into the cafe, the brush of Ignis’ hand against his. Their knees touch under the table.

 

He wonders what Ignis would think of a date to an arcade. Ignis seems more like the museum type than the arcade type, but he’s also apparently full of surprises.

 

It’s almost awkward from how awkward it _isn’t_. He thinks, for a moment, that he could get addicted to this.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The second date is a movie. The movie is _awful._

 

Noct slouches and stretches his arm out over the seat next to him like he would if it weren’t a date, and Ignis crosses one of his ankles over the opposite knee, tipping a gloved hand up to cover the sound, as he mouths dry comments about the hero’s flight from the bad CG monster on the screen. It’s heady and new, and he just can’t get enough.

 

The quiet murmurs against his ear, just for him, just to feel his shoulders shake with silent laughter, leave him feeling flush and warm for hours after.

 

They’re both busy people, so things get spaced out over a matter of weeks. Noct is meant to step up and take more responsibilities once he’s graduated, and even though he still sleeps the most of anyone he knows, he’s been determined to make sure his measures toward greater independence are more than just a show.

 

He isn’t sure what he expects. There’s no demonstrative shows of affection. They don’t touch much more than before, beyond casual brushes that’d be easy enough to write off. But the tension between them crackles; he feels a little lighter, laughs a little harder at every joke Ignis makes, and realizes that, at least, he can get away with staring at his sort-of-maybe-boyfriend.

 

So he waits for Ignis to make a move first.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He realizes before long that Ignis is trying to give him space. Space to take things in, space to adjust and get his bearings. He’s ever so courtly, that way.

 

If not for the blushing and the fact that he keeps initiating the little touches, that he’s arranged all the dates so far, Noct would be wondering how interested Ignis really is, or if he’s just being humored. There’s a gap in his head shaped like the kinds of dates he could be taking Ignis on, what it is that Ignis might like. In some ways, there’s a lot they haven’t talked about.

 

The bondage gear accidentally ends up becoming an anchor. None of it’s meant to hurt, to leave marks, and he starts sleeping with the door locked sometimes-- just in case of Ignis coming in to wake him one day and finding him curled on his side, wrists and ankles cradled in the gentle-but-firm grip of leather under his pajamas.

 

Would Ignis find it offputting? Appealing? Noct isn’t ready to find out yet.

 

It takes the edge off the way his skin seems to have a strange tingling ache hovering above it wherever Ignis has brushed against him most recently, like it’s hungry for pressure and touch.

 

 

* * *

 

 

A little of his patience gets rewarded on the third date.

 

First off, Ignis manages to find a smaller out-of-the-way aquarium that’s also a fishing museum. He kind of wants to take Prompto there to take pictures, knowing he’d get a kick out of it, but at the same time he’s content just dealing with the welcome, if surreal, sensation of being on his _date_.

 

There’s apparently lots of weird fish out there, and weirder yet rumored and illustrated. It’s nothing fascinating, and he doubts he’ll ever end up trying his hand at the veritable monsters of the deep, but he feels charmed and indulged that Ignis remembers his hobby. If he’s bored, he’s not letting on, patiently pondering the enormous tanks and exhibits.

 

Ignis even reaches out to grip his hand-- both of them wearing gloves with their casual outfits-- during a quiet, private moment, in a dark room with a vast curved tank that holds a drifting constellation of glowing barrelfish. The moment sears itself into Noct’s memory.

 

He gets Ignis a ridiculous little plush keychain of a Vesper gar, which Ignis regards solemnly and clips to his keys without a word.

 

There’s even a crepe stand outside the aquarium. They linger there after, and end up wandering through a park with their crepes before they go back to the car.

 

Partly for security and partly from habit, he still rides in the backseat; he realizes he’s going to see the keychain every time Ignis drives him somewhere, and he’s not sure yet how he feels about that, but at least some of what he’s feeling is a weird little bit of possessive pleasure. That’s probably kind of weird to feel over a keychain.

 

“Hey,” he says casually, when they’re pulled up in front of his apartment building instead of Ignis heading to park, “you could come in and have some coffee.”

 

Ignis makes eye contact via the rear-view mirror, and an interesting sound makes its way out of his throat. There’s a raised eyebrow, and a silent laugh somewhere in the corners of Ignis’ eyes at Noct’s blush-- he belatedly remembers the euphemism.

 

“It’s a kind thought,” says Ignis, and, “perhaps another time,” but he gets out of the car to open Noct’s door and walk him up to the building.

 

The security pass buzzes Noct through the first door, and he’s reluctant to pull away from Ignis’ side.

 

“I guess this is me,” he says.

 

Ignis hesitates, raising a hand, eyes searching his face.

 

Then he steps in carefully, softly, and ducks his head down to press his lips against Noct’s.

 

Oh. _Oh_. His brain short-circuits.

 

It’s only the soft brush of Ignis’ mouth, his nose bumping Noct’s cheek; it’s only a physical touch, not a magic spark, and when Noct surges up in response, it’s just a press back. Just a kiss. Just a kiss.

 

He thinks he could die like this, right here, right now, opening his mouth a bit to tug at Ignis’ lower lip, a hand settled careful on his jaw.

 

All too soon, it’s over.

 

Ignis steps away and clears his throat with a tiny cough. He looks a little flustered and dazed.

 

And Noct...wants more. Doesn’t know what he wants. Something in him is hungry, greedy, watchful and waiting inside him with big eyes. It’s a good kiss, a kiss he’d do over and over again, and he wants-- more.

 

“Is this alright?” asks Ignis.

 

“...Yeah,” he replies. “It’s good.”

 

It’s also a promise of things to come.

 

So he lets himself and Ignis part breathless, and not without hope that all this is leading somewhere he’s craving, even if he faintly knows yet what it’ll be when he gets there.

 

_end_

**Author's Note:**

> jgfdsklhs actually i wrote this last month, not long after i finished the game (i think?), but? it was originally meant to be a lead-in of a few comedy scenes and a smutty pwp.
> 
> twenty pages later, with no porn at all, i went "well, shit".
> 
> got tired of sitting on it, because i put a lot of time, work, and care into it, and went back to see if i could rework it as a raunchy romcom. this little thing is the result. if you notice any major errors, please let me know!


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